


A Fantasy

by LazyAdmiral



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 03:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyAdmiral/pseuds/LazyAdmiral
Summary: It’s an idea, an idle daydream that she finds herself drifting towards with increasing frequency these days, as the hustle and rush of organising a new Order of Grey Wardens weighs on her shoulders so hard she almost wishes another archdemon would show up.Still. It’s utterly, utterly foolish. That still doesn’t stop her.~The Warden thinks about Loghain, and regrets.





	A Fantasy

It’s an idea, an idle daydream that she finds herself drifting towards with increasing frequency these days, as the hustle and rush of organising a new Order of Grey Wardens weighs on her shoulders so heavily, she almost wishes another archdemon would show up.

Still. It’s utterly, utterly foolish. That still doesn’t stop her.

She finds herself back in the hallway the night before Redcliffe, watching through a dark doorway at the silhouette of a man that both fascinated and bewildered her. In truth, she had been surprised when Loghain had acquiesced so easily to her request to bed Morrigan, to participate in a dark ritual that only promised the slimmest of chances that either one of them might make it out of this alive. This was the same man who had fought against her tooth and nail for months, tearing his country and his court to shreds as she marched her ragtag army of mages, outcasts, and thieves to his doorstep. When he had yielded, falling to his knees before the lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, she had seen the expectation of a swift, unmerciful death in his eyes.

It had not been his fate, of course. His surrender was hard-earned, and she had been determined to make him pay for the debt, regardless of Alistair's complaints. But falling in... not love, but _infatuation_ with anyone, let alone the disgraced Hero of River Dane, had never been in her plans. 

Still, there's little she can change about things now.  So she lies back in her bed - a real _bed_ , and isn't that a luxury after months of sodden bedrolls and leaky tents - and lets her mind drift back to that night.

He'd still been awake, stood across in front of the fire when she'd wandered down, unable to rest easily with every choice and doubt weighing down over her. A floorboard had creaked, and he'd looked up to find her watching. He'd looked so tired, and perhaps a little sad, but in the gloom she'd seen his expression shift, eyes burning with something more than firelight as his eyes found her.

"You need not fret. The deed is done." A sigh, weary and bitter all at once, and he shook his head, turning back to the flames. "I only pray it works."

She notices now, as she should have noticed then, that he did not pray that the act was worth it - only that it _worked_.

Her feet had guided her towards him with little notice or guidance from her brain, but she remembers looking at his face, closer now, and seeing every line of care written across his features and wanting to think of some way to thank him, to show her gratitude, her admiration for a man who had been confronted with his darkest deeds and seemed ironbound to make his own amends whatever it took-

She had kissed him, so quickly as to only catch a fleeting sensation of the warmth of his mouth against hers. Pulling back, their gazes had locked in a weighted moment of held breath and unspoken desires.

Her name left his lips, whispered and heavy with a yearning that had left her breathless - and sent her running back to the safety of her guest room.

She imagines herself there now, back in that moment where time had seemed to pause and dilate, hanging them on the edge of a precipice into the unknown. This time though, her heart doesn’t lodge in her throat and panic does not rise in her chest. This time, she does not succumb to the ridiculous fear, confusion and doubt that had seized her that night and saw her lying alone and frustrated in her bed until dawn filtered through the drapes.

This time, she takes Loghain’s hand, his rough, strong fingers twining through her own, and he follows her into her room.

In the privacy of her bower, her own hands follow the trail her mind sets. His mouth, which so often looks as hard as granite, forges a path of kisses both tender and sharp from her jaw to her throat, worrying at her pulse and making her gasp. Teeth and lips and tongue continue down her collar, the valley of her breasts, shoulders, waist - in every place, the Loghain of her mind spares nothing more or less than as long as it takes to brush his lips against every ragged scar, every freckle, every mark of struggle and trial before moving on. She imagines she can feel the rasping grip of callouses on his palms as he teases her eager flesh, her blood already thundering in her veins.

The Loghain of the waking world is focused, intense and passionate, and so in her mind, she basks under that attention. She imagines sometimes how she might have turned the tables, though. She lets herself theorise how he would look, how he would sound, how he would  _ taste _ as she broke him apart. Would he have allowed her to use her magic with him? Asked her to, even? Her throaty groan mimics the one she fantasises ripping from his throat as she lets her fingers dance with fire and ice against his skin, and she gives a passing thanks for the Keep and it's thick stone walls.

She never believed herself to be particularly aggressive in sex; now she wonders how proud Loghain is; if such a man as he would be too proud to beg. She hopes not.

The hardest part is what lies under the armour – this, she has little reference to go on. Not that she has not seen him out of it - he wounds and bleeds much as any mortal man might, and while she lacks Wynne's finesse, she has talent enough at healing that she can handle most repercussions from a fight. But Loghain keeps as much of his skin covered as he may in those times, although if out of modesty or some sense of propriety, she remains unsure. But beyond the strength and sinew of his arms where he sometimes pushes up his sleeves, or the promising dip of his collar with a glimpse of pale skin and wiry, black hair, she knows little of what hides beneath the rough Fereldan wool he prefers. 

So, her imagination must suffice.  She can surmise that the same rich, dark hair that covers his head and dusts his arms spans elsewhere. He has been a soldier, she knows, and the broad shoulders that speak of his strength and training also imply a sturdy frame, unwasted by age but weathered like rough-hewn stone. Likewise, she imagines there will be scars, but where and how many changes depending on her mood. Sometimes her fingertips drift over her own long-healed injuries, tracing over mangled flesh as she pictures a similar wound on him – a mark that should have meant death, should have prevented this ever happening. She wonders if he would be proud of such a thing, of visible proof of what he had survived – and if sometimes that pride faltered, succumbing to shame and the poisonous thoughts of ‘what if’.

She has even less reference once he is finally bare to her mind’s eye. While her brief time running around trying to stop a Blight has opened her eyes to the sheer…  _ variety _ of the Maker’s creation, she has still only ever been to bed with a handful of her fellow mages, and even then...  Sex in the Circle left little room for undressing, let alone taking the time to bask in the sight of a lover - at least not without significant risk of a Templar bursting in.  Something in her recoils at the idea of comparing and yet she supposes it is inevitable, human nature even, to wonder how different he might be. How he might feel within the deepest heat of her, how she might claim him inch by sweat-slicked inch, unhurried or threatened by fear of discovery, but free to explore him, enjoy him at her leisure.

Yet when her fantasy crests, taking her weak flesh with it, it is not the imagined Loghain’s more  _ physical _ endowments that pull her into that abyss, but his words. Hot breath in her ear, rasping against her shoulder; rich voice ragged like silk snagged over something sharper. Words that speak of desire and want, of offering something more than a mere physical indulgence. A warmth that does not abate once lust has been satisfied.

She lies in her bed alone, muscles still jumping and tingling with aftershocks and the evidence of her own pleasure drying and sticky at her apex of her thighs and on her fingers. There is a burning behind her eyes that has little to do with the lateness of the evening.

Utterly, utterly foolish. But no less foolish than running away like a frightened child that night, and at least here, the only one who knows her shame is her.

On her desk in the corner, there is a letter that was not meant for her eyes, but his. Orders directly from Weisshaupt, reassigning Loghain from her command in Vigil's Keep to bloody _Montsimmard_ of all places. She already knows she cannot fight it - her newly-minted position as Commander of the Grey in Ferelden is already tenuous enough, given how she miraculously survived killing an archdemon. Maker, if they think Loghain cannot be trusted with his loyalty to Ferelden, then who knew what they'd decide to make of her allegiances.

She will re-seal the letter in the morning, and have one of the hands deliver it to him. She will not cause him further grief within the Wardens, where many in the Keep already watch him with distrustful eyes and barely concealed contempt. It will be easier, too, when she no longer has to pretend she does not see the warmth in his gaze or relish the heat from his hand on her arm when it lingers a fraction of a moment longer than it should. Perhaps this is the kinder fate, she thinks as she wraps her blankets around her in a vain attempt to chase the encroaching chill from her bones. It must be kinder to let them each carry their own longing with them, unspoken but also undeveloped. Surely, it would be worse now if she had held him in her arms, only to be forced to let him go?

It is a cold comfort, and sleep does not come easy. Then again, it never does these days.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, this is pretty much completely un-betad so any mistakes are mine. I have a curious soft spot for Loghain in that I love writing about him, but also like piling on the angst when I do. I may do a companion piece/follow-up to this one from Loghain's POV, but that requires the muse cooperating.
> 
> I'm also aware that there isn't really much to define the Warden here as Amell as opposed to Surana, but my feeling as I wrote her was towards Amell - I always interpret my Surana as having some more conflicted feelings regarding Loghain after what happens with the alienage.
> 
> Kudos are welcomed, comments are adored :)


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